


and the things that will be lost

by paperxcrowns



Series: January Prompt Event 2021 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne stays dead AU, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I DO NOT KILL CHARACTERS, Romani Dick Grayson, THE MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH IS BRUCE AND HE'S ALREADY DEAD, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, because my children need to grieve and get better, dc stop reviving characters, dick and dami aren't white, i just hurt them, it's more implied than anything, sue me that album is amazing, the day i stop writing romani dick is the day i die, they're getting better though, yes the title is from evermore by taylor swift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28667748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperxcrowns/pseuds/paperxcrowns
Summary: a fix-it fanfic where dick and Tim actually communicate and try to fix their relationship after their fallout after Bruce's death. Dick will always be there for his family, even if said family tries to push them away.written for the January Prompt day 9: "I will always find you"
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: January Prompt Event 2021 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100972
Comments: 4
Kudos: 117
Collections: Bat Family 18+ Discord Server January Prompt Event





	and the things that will be lost

**Author's Note:**

> me, with 2 sisters who have a dynamic similar to Tim and Damian's: IT'S MY TIME TO SHINE

Tim didn’t hold out much hope he’d be found.

Actually, he knew he wouldn’t be found. At least not by his family. And if they did in fact find him, it wouldn’t be alive.

But he had to admit it, it was nice to hope they would. But after three days of being here, in this damp room-- basement, if Tim had to hazard a guess-- the hope was starting to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The guys who’d cornered him in an alleyway in Rome intended for Batman to come, clearly. There was no other reason as to why they’d press his emergency beacon. But it had been three days and Dick hadn’t shown. 

At least he knew that Dick wouldn’t bother showing up if Tim pressed the emergency button.

 ** _That’s a lie and you know it,_ **a small voice nagged him.

Dick had so much to carry and Tim had just left him to his own devices, to take on the mantle, to care for Damian. Of course Dick wouldn’t come for him. Tim didn’t think he’d come for himself either if he were Dick. 

He coughed and groaned as it send twinging pain down his ribs. He wanted to curl in on himself, but didn’t have enough energy to move anymore. He wouldn’t last much longer, anyways, not with the fever settling in. Maybe it was for the best Dick didn’t come. One less problem. 

There was a sound behind the door, like scuffling, faint grunts and groans and running footsteps. Tim wasn’t sure if he could handle another round. Sweat trickled down his temple. Earlier, the cell had felt unbelievably cold, especially after he’d been stripped of most of his equipment, his boots and cape included. Now he felt hot, and maybe a bit delirious because he could have sworn he saw a flash of Batman’s black costume when the door slammed open.

A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched. Someone swore. 

“Red Robin?” a voice asked, distant, but familiar.

Tim hummed, his head lolling to face his masked abductors. Instead he came face to face with Batman.

“Batman?” he asked, wincing at the sound of his gravelly voice.

Batman smiled. “I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Tim squinted. “Dick?” he asked. “You came? You found me?”

The reassuring smile dropped. His gloved hand cupped his cheek. “I will always find you.”

Tim sighed, his eyes too heavy to keep open. “Liar,” he exhaled, letting his eyes close.

He heard Dick call his name frantically, but Tim had already teetered over the edge and was falling into the abyss.

Tim woke up on a cloud. Or on what felt like a cloud-- impossibly soft and warm, exactly like he’d imagined clouds to feel. He opened his eyes to see he wasn’t in his hotel room. Or the dark basement that had become his home for three days. He was in an unfamiliar room with a cream colored ceiling staring back down at him. 

“Tim.” 

He turned his head and saw Dick perched in a chair, his long limbs somehow fitting in the chair, all folded up on himself. His hair was greasy and there were dark bruises under his eyes, but he still smiled and unfurled his body into a more normal sitting position when his eyes met Tim’s.

“Hey,” he said softly. “How are you feeling?”

It took a monumental effort to open his mouth, and he doubted he had the physical capacity to speak before he’d had a drink of water first, so he just settled for a shrug. 

“We took you back to Gotham,” Dick said. “Sorry-- I know you were following… your leads.”

And it was the way he’d said that, like it was a useless folly, all in Tim’s head. Dick was tired of it, and Tim was tired of not being taken seriously. He glared at Dick, who simply sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t pick a fight when you almost d--” His gaze snapped to Tim and he fell quiet.

Tim coughed, trying to get his vocal cords to work. “You came,” he croaked out.

Dick’s face fell. “Of course I did.”

The glare came back with vitriol. “Don’t give me that,” Tim said, hating how hoarse his voice sounded, even to his own ears. His voice was almost painfully dry, but it wasn’t going to make him back down. 

“Tim, I’m not going to fight with you,” Dick said, still annoyingly calm.

Tim didn’t deign him a reply, simply rolled over, taking the soft covers with him and pulling them up to his chin. He might as well try to go back to sleep if it meant avoiding Dick. Maybe he’d manage to sneak out. He _really_ didn’t want to have this conversation with Dick anytime soon.

He heard Dick stand up with a sigh. 

“We’ll need to talk at some point,” he said sadly. “I miss you, Tim.”

And who’s fault was that? He wanted to bite at Dick.

 ** _It’s your fault, too,_ **the little voice in his head sang.

Tim was really starting to hate that voice.

**_Because I’m right?_ **

The door clicked shut behind Dick. If he’d said anything else, Tim hadn’t heard it. He didn’t move, either. He was more comfortable than he’d been laying on his back, and he didn’t want to leave his room. That would mean talking with-- more specifically, yelling at-- Dick, almost getting killed by Damian, and he just couldn’t face Alfred. He should have asked Dick for water. 

The thugs had done a number on him in his three days of captivity, though now all the wounds were cleaned and disinfected and stitched up. He was a little drowsy and his head was still pounding faintly

He wasn’t in the manor. He was thankful for that. Whenever he stepped foot in the manor, he would feel the ghost of Bruce everywhere. Een in his room. Everything there screamed Bruce, and it easily became overwhelming. He must be in one of Bruce’s safehouses somewhere in downtown Gotham. 

He sat up, still feeling a little woozy, but much better. He glanced around. The room was plain; cream walls and ceiling, hardwood floors, the bed he was in tucked in a corner and two bedside tables on each side. There was no closet, just a towering wardrobe made of dark wood and brass knobs that matched the dresser. The drawn curtains were a soft yellow to match the bed and brightened up the room, a few rays of early morning sunlight streaming through a slit in the curtains. 

Tim drew the covers back, knowing he’d probably overstayed his welcome by now. Of course, after his argument with Dick, he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d been too harsh on him.

 ** _You weren’t the only one who lost Bruce,_ **the little voice reminded him.

But it was too late now. Tim had made Dick choose between him and Damian, and accused his brother of-- he shook his head. It wasn’t like Dick hadn’t done his fair share.

The little voice laughed and Tim wished it would simply go away. He wasn’t _crazy._ He was _right. He was right._ He was--

**_It must be all that time flying all over the world. Altitude’s messing with your head._ **

Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet landing on a soft rug under the bed. He felt too fragile to face Dick and Alfred. And Damian. 

_I will always find you_ , Dick had said. He cared. But Tim doubted him. Doubted his word. He was the worst brother in the world.

**_How selfish of you to say that._ **

Tim looked around for his clothes, his hands shaking and his breath stuttering. He knew what this was. It had been _months._ He’d been flying from city to city, country to country, barely catching any sleep, barely eating, barely talking to anyone unless it was hotel or airport staff. He’d pushed _everyone_ who wasn’t already _dead_ away. He’d been kidnapped, hurt, stabbed, shot more times than he’d ever been as Robin.

He knew he was bound to have a breakdown at one point. He wasn’t stupid. He knew this self-destructive behavior wouldn’t help. He was beyond help at this point.

The little voice laughed.

He opened the wardrobe, expecting to find it empty, or filled with clothes belonging to Dick or Damian. He was definitely not expecting to find his own clothes, ones he’d left back at the manor, to be hanging there. 

He didn’t think about it. He shoved it away and grabbed a shirt. He opened a drawer in the dresser and pulled out underwear and socks and found a pair of his jeans in another. 

Dick hadn’t put on a shirt-- it was summer and the room was warm enough that it wouldn’t have made his fever worse, so all Tim had to do was slip the shirt over his bandaged torso.

Pulling on jeans took more effort on account of his bruised-- correction, broken-- ribs and the deep purple bruising on his left hip where he’d taken a metal baseball bat, but he managed.

The fever had broken overnight, so if Tim dressed warm enough, he would be fine. He thought about looking for his suit, but Dick had probably taken it with him. He would make himself another one, maybe even at the Batcave since the manor was empty.

He wrenched the curtains apart and pulled the window open. They were definitely in downtown Gotham, Tim had guessed right. He swore; he’d have to find another way down.

The cursed sound of a door creaking open startled Tim.

“Fuck,” he swore softly, jumping onto the balcony.

“Where--” a voice started. “Oh, for _crying out loud_.”

Damian had come in Tim’s room, and Tim was officially no longer welcome. He stayed out of sight, praying the kid wouldn’t check the balcony.

“I doubt you need me to tell you that this is an insultingly ridiculous game of hide and seek,” Damian demanded.

Tim sighed and opened his eyes. The kid was different. He was surprised this was his first thought. The kid looked relatively the same as he had when Tim had left, but he had grown a little taller, his cheeks starting to lose their soft roundness, and his dark hair had grown a little longer. He glared at Tim with his startling green eyes. But there was something in his attitude-- something less hostile, less tense. 

He shrugged. “Honestly, I think we all just can’t wait until I leave, and I was just going to speed things up.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “By jumping out of a twenty-story window?”

Twenty-stories-- if Tim managed it right, he _might_ survive. With a few broken bones, but he might.

He glared. “I didn’t _know_ it was twenty-stories.”

Damian smirked, but there was slight genuine amusement in it. “Before you jump, Richard wanted you to join us for breakfast. Richard _and_ Pennyworth.”

Richard, he thought bitterly. Dick and Damian had grown closer in the months Tim had been absent.

**You _left_. _Were you expecting them to wallow in self-pity like you?_ **

Tim grit his teeth. “Fine. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Damian scoffed. “Do not worry, we would not want you to stay.”

This was Damian. He always jabbed cruel things at Tim. There was no reason this should sting as much as it did. 

Breakfast was almost pleasant in its familiarity. This was just a typical morning at Wayne Manor, with Tim, Dick and Damian at the table and Bruce either working on a case or for another WE project. Imagining that it wasn’t a gray reality where Bruce was dead and the family had crumbled into nothingness almost immediately hurt a little less.

Tim doubted he’d eaten this much in months. He couldn’t finish his third pancake and settled on making himself another cup of tea.

“Tim,” Dick said, breaking the silence that had reigned in the kitchen after Tim’s brief ‘good morning’ reciprocated by Dick and Alfred. Of course, he’d accepted Alfred’s hug (when was the last time he’d been _hugged?_ ), but breakfast had gone by relatively normal otherwise.

His grip tightened on his mug and his heartbeat accelerated. “What?”

“Can you stay?” 

Tim was so startled by the question he looked up and met Dick’s eyes. They were wide and sincere, unlike Damian’s which were narrowed and shocked.

“Can I _stay?”_

“Here. With us. We’re-- we’re _family,_ Tim. I hate seeing you destroy yourself over this.”

Tim’s cheek twitched. “After you let me leave?”

It was Dick’s turn to look confused. “What?”

Tim laughed bitterly. “You took Robin from me and you let Damian insult me and you just let me leave? If you wanted family, why didn’t you come after me? Why didn’t you tell me you _wanted me?”_

Dick’s mouth was hanging open. “You can’t possibly _blame me_ for letting you go?” he asked in a small voice. “Tim--”

“I _am,”_ Tim snapped, his eyes stinging. “You didn’t come after me. You didn’t check up at _all._ ” He choked down a sob and looked away. “It took you three days, Dick. I thought you weren’t--”

His voice wavered and he stopped talking to avoid the tears threatening to spill.

“Damian,” Dick said softly. “Can you help Alfred clean up, please?”

He wanted to talk to Tim alone, and no one was fooled. Tim watched Damian stand up and leave the dining room out the corner of his eye. He was ping-ponging between anger and devastation. Rage was better than tears, much better than pity.

“Tim,” Dick said, sounding so completely lost and out of his depth that Tim was painfully reminded of the fact that he was only twenty-four. It wasn’t any more fair what had happened to Tim than what had happened to Dick. 

**_You’re looking for someone to blame. Is there really anyone_ to _blame?_**

“Tim, I wanted to give you time. Time to grieve, and space to do it. It’s been hard for all of us, but your proof isn’t _there,_ Tim. There’s _nothing.”_

Tim snorted. It sounded a lot like sniffling. “Like you would know.”

“I would. I checked everything you gave me. Your proof. I looked into it. Tim--” a chair scraped and though Tim still refused to look up from the mahogany table, he heard Dick come closer and take a seat right next to him. He wanted to lean into the warmth of his older brother. “Tim, there’s nothing. He’s gone. Please, _please_ stay.”

Tim looked up sharply. “Stay for _what,_ exactly? You took Robin from me. You didn’t even _ask._ ”

He could pinpoint the exact moment Dick switched on the defensive. “Damian needed it, Tim. You wouldn’t have said ye--”

 _“How do you know?”_ Tim yelled, a tear spilling free. 

He turned away, wiping it away furiously. Dick said nothing, and Tim knew he’d won this round.

**_Won what, exactly? Bragging rights?_ **

This was not about bragging rights. He wanted to yell at the voice to go away.

“Are you even going to apologize?” he asked quietly, the loudest he could be without having his voice wobble.

“I won’t apologize for giving it away,” Dick said. “I _will_ apologize for not asking you, or telling you first. I was-- truth is, I was terrified I'd lose him, Tim. Damian’s only ten and Bruce was gone, and I didn’t know--” Dick faltered. “I didn’t know how else to make him stay.”

 ** _Humans are so horribly selfish in their grief,_ **the little voice said. **_Thinking they are the only ones affected._**

Tim thought that maybe humans were allowed to be selfish in their grief. He wanted to laugh and cry and yell and break things, not ask how someone else was doing. Tim wanted to _grieve._ But grieving meant admitting the man who’d taken him in when he found out Tim’s parents weren’t there most of the year, the man who’d adopted Tim after his parents had died, the man who’d shown him more love than his own parents, was _gone._ He would never have that again. 

The knot in Tim’s chest lessened slightly, but the anger was still there. The anger and a bit of understanding. He didn’t want understanding, he just wanted to be angry. It wasn’t fair to Dick, but Tim didn’t know what else to do. 

“At least stop saying that,” he said softly.

Dick looked up, nonplussed. “Stop saying what?”

“That you “gave it away”. You took it away from _me_ and gave it to Damian. Stop lying like that. We both know the truth. You chose Damian over me.”

They make progress and then Tim has to say just the right thing to bring them back to square zero. He was hurting Dick, because he didn’t know what else to do. Hug him and cry and apologize for that stupid argument? _Forgive_ him?

**_Yes._ **

Dick’s hands were fists on the table top. It would be easier if Dick kicked him out and told him to continue searching for Bruce and that he didn’t care. But Dick wasn’t like that. The fucking idiot forgave the people he loved _so easily._

Dick stood up abruptly enough that Tim flinched violently. He said nothing, and that was almost worse. He simply walked out of the dining room and left Tim and his pity party of one.

Dick paused in the doorway. “Just because I love Damian, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I love you both, Tim. That is the truth.”

Tim swallowed, but didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard Dick. Damian walked in almost as soon as Dick’s footsteps had faded, and Tim repressed an unsurprised snort. Of course Damian would wait until Dick was gone to torment Tim again.

“Your pity party act is getting old, Drake,” he said evenly. “Father is _gone_ and you seriously need to move on. This is getting ridiculous.”

**_He’s right._ **

He’s an asshole.

**_So are you._ **

Tim sighed. Maybe he could do _one_ thing right today. Or ever. “I don’t-- hate you.”

God, he could already tell the kid was staring at him in complete disbelief. 

“I don’t want to hate you,” he remedied. “You don’t deserve it. You didn’t ask for what you were put through--”

“I was not “put through” _anything_ , Drake,” Damian hissed in a dangerous voice, sharp and cold like the edge of a blade. “You should refrain from giving people lessons in the heart when you cannot even deal with your own emotions. It makes you look like a hypocrite.”

Damian stormed out. So Dick hadn’t yet managed to convince the kid that the League of Assassins was a cult and that the only probably half decent person there was Talia for getting Damian out of there. 

“If you are finished with breakfast, Master Timothy, then you could perhaps assist me in clearing the table,” Alfred said.

Tim looked up to see Alfred looking at him softly, his eyes creased and a faint smile on his lips.

“I’m sorry for messing everything up,” he said, standing up stiffly. Might as well make himself useful.

“My boy, perhaps the reason you find yourself this angry towards Master Richard and Master Damian is because you struggle to move on.”

Tim knew that Alfred knew this was exactly why. But Bruce wasn’t dead and Tim was right. Tim would find him.

**_You don’t sound so sure anymore._ **

He shrugged, stacking the empty plates. “Bruce is alive,” he said simply. 

Alfred’s face hardened and his eyes became sadder. “It does us no good to dwell on ghosts. We tend to lose ourselves and forget the living.”

Tim would have to plug those words into a search bar because that was surprisingly insightful and poetic.

He shook his head vehemently. “He isn’t a ghost. I’m _not_ crazy. I’m right.”

Alfred simply went about collecting the silverware. “Not a single one of us believe you are crazy, Master Timothy. Perhaps only in the sense that you refuse to let yourself grieve.”

“I grieved too much already. Bruce isn’t _dead,_ so I don’t _need to.”_

He didn’t wait for any answer, simply took the plates to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher before bolting back to his room.

_I will always find you._

Dick had said that.

Tim leaned against the door and sagged, letting gravity pull him to the ground where he wrapped his arms around his knees, ignoring the sharp ache in his ribs and hip, ignoring the steady drumming in the back of his skull. 

It was the exact same thing Bruce had told him when he’d been kidnapped and ransomed while his parents were off somewhere in the Andes. They couldn’t have paid, they usually left their phones or laptops back in their rental home. Bruce had found him, Bruce had cared enough to come.

Dick had cared enough to come.

**_Even after all he did to you. Would you do the same?_ **

Even after all Dick had done to him? Without a doubt. 

He sighed and leaned his forehead on his crossed arms, closing his eyes. These months had been so tiring, and Tim had barely paused at all, working off pure adrenaline and desperation. It was weird how the exhaustion was slowly catching up to him now. He exhaled.

He woke with a shout. He’d fallen asleep against the door, and had somehow slid down to lay against the door on his side when he’d woken up. He hadn’t allowed himself a good night’s rest in so long he’d forgotten about nightmares.

His neck hurt when he moved it and his limbs were sore and creaked oddly, but he didn’t care about that. He cared about the knot of anxiety slowly growing in his chest, his breathing rattling in his lungs with difficulty. He had no idea what time it was but it was dark outside. 

He stumbled to his feet and made it to the bathroom before the tears spilled and he was almost choking on his own breathing.

He turned on the shower and stepped in fully clothed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to take them off. Not when the world was hazy and colorless, too bright and too dark.

The jet was freezing. Hot showers helped calm him down, but the cold water seemed to only make the tears and panic work faster.

What was he _doing?_

Bruce was _dead,_ and he was destroying what remained of his family.

He shivered violently, sinking to his knees, hands gripping the side of the porcelain tub, trying to force himself out. He was recovering from a fever, this wasn’t the time to catch himself another one.

But he couldn’t breathe, let alone think. He could see Bruce in his peripheral, but when he looked, ready to ask for help, he saw Kon and he screamed. He wasn’t sobbing, he wasn’t weeping, he was grieving. _Everyone_ was dead. They were gone, and no Lazarus Pit would bring them back anymore. He was so very alone, all of a sudden.

He was screaming out sobs, knowing faintly that someone who hear him. He tried to force himself to calm down, but there was nothing. There was only a gaping, bleeding wound in his heart that would never heal.

_Where are you, little voice, to tell me you were right? That Bruce is gone, that everyone is gone?_

There wasn’t anything. No voice mocking him for his denial, just him and his anguish and bone-deep grief. 

_Don’t leave me alone._

“I won’t,” someone said.

And he felt warmth against his arm, against his soaked body.

“I promise I won’t let you go this time,” the voice said, bringing him tighter.

Tim couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop shivering.

_They’re all dead. Everyone is gone._

“I’m here. Damian’s here. Alfred’s here. They love you, Tim. I love you so much. So so much.”

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so so unbelievably sorry for everything._

“I forgive you, Timbo. I forgive you, okay? I’m sorry too. But you’re not alone anymore. Can you breathe? Like me, just like me.”

Tim choked on the first breath, shivers rattling his bones, but the second came easier, and the third even easier. 

“There we go. That’s perfect. Just keep breathing.”

Tim breathed, and focused on inhaling, letting air inflate his lungs and deflate like a balloon. He was focusing. He was breathing. He was _freezing._

“Let’s get you out of the bathtub, okay? You’re gonna catch another fever.”

Tim was still crying and shivering, the exhaustion back again, but he gripped the shirt of...someone. It was soft and warm and smelled like lemongrass and chalk. It was familiar and comforting.

The warm hands peels off his wet shirt and struggled with replacing it with a loose sweater. The two maneuvered to the bed and the hands forced Tim down. He reached for the hands when they left, leaving cold where warmth had blossomed, but they patted him reassuringly. He caught sight of blue eyes and black hair through his blurred vision.

“Bruce?” he asked hoarsely.

The eyes snapped to him and he noticed the dark skin.

“No,” Dick said softly, almost sadly. “Not Bruce. Let’s get you into sweatpants, okay?”

Tim didn’t say anything, wiped his eyes, rubbed his arm to try and force warmth back into them, and didn’t fight Dick when he helped him out of his jeans and into soft sweatpants.

Dick pulled him into bed and started to leave when Tim grabbed his wrist. He wasn’t crying anymore, he was drowsy and cold.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t.”

Dick slipped free of his grasp and Tim was scared he was actually going to leave him until the covers lifted and the mattress dipped.

Tim hugged Dick close, still shivering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

Dick ran his hand through Tim’s hair, humming softly. “That’s okay.”

“No. I’m sorry. I wasn’t fair.”

The hand paused. “Neither was I, Timmy. But we’ll talk more about it, tomorrow, okay?”

Tim tried to open his mouth to reply, but his body was lax, his mind slipping. Dick murmured something against his hair and the dark enveloped him.

“You want to talk about it?” Dick asked the next afternoon, taking a seat on the couch opposite of Tim’s, pulling his legs under him and blowing on his steaming tea. 

Tim tried his best to avoid flushing. “I had a breakdown, I’m fine now.”

Dick snorted. “Anyone who has a breakdown usually isn’t _fine.”_

Tim jerked and snapped his laptop shut, Dick jumping slightly. “Okay, then,” he said harshly. “You’re right. Everything’s _not fine._ Frankly, _nothing_ has been fine for _months_. But don’t go around pretending like you’re on some high ground just because you think you’ve gotten over Bruce. He’s _dead._ None of us are handling it! We’re all fucking messes, Dick! Open your fucking eyes and _see,_ for fuck’s sake! You’re not doing better than me, you just want to pretend you are.”

Dick glared. “I did what I could. Is it so hard to see--”

“Yes! Because you wouldn’t believe me, Dick! Do you know how much that _hurts_ that of all the people I wanted to believe me, you were the first, and you wouldn’t--”

“I wouldn’t let myself go down that path because i would have stopped at nothing to get Bruce back, and that was not what Damian _or you_ needed. What we _needed_ was stability. And I tried to give that, Tim.”

“You weren’t there for me.”

Dick pursed his lips, his eyebrows drawing together. There was the barest hint of anger in his tight features. “And you weren’t there for me, either.”

 ** _He’s right and you know it. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,_ **the little voice mocked.

Tim opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what to reply to what Dick said. 

“Why do you ask how I am? How I’m holding up?” he bit out. “Surely it’s not to have a civil conversation, and surely it’s not to check up on me. Not after ignoring me like that.”

Dick flinched, then scowled. “You almost _fucking died,_ Tim. And then you had an emotional _breakdown_.” He ran a frantic hand through his messy hair. “You probably won’t believe me, but I can’t lose you, too.” He coughed, blinking rapidly. “Everyone in this family-- Jason died. Then Bruce. Then everything fell apart. I tried.” Dick looked up, eyes shining. “God, I tried _so hard_ , but Bruce was _dead_ and I wasn’t okay and no one else was going to keep this family together.”

Tim said nothing. Nothing was okay. Bruce was dead, Dick was barely managing, everything was a Jenga tower teetering, about to collapse. But they were together. That had to count for something, right? 

“The best way to fix this family is to lure everyone back with cake,” Tim offered shyly.

Dick looked at him with such relief and gratitude it knocked him off balance. “Don’t think I’ve tried it yet.”

Tim smiled. “Well then no wonder everything went to hell. Get the hell spawn, we’re baking.”

Dick smiled back. “Please give him nicer nicknames.”

Tim sighed loudly, setting his laptop on the couch and standing up. “Only if he’s nice to me.”

Maybe eventually Tim would be okay. They could live without Bruce. He glanced at Dick, making his way down the hall towards Damian’s room. He’d already stepped up, alone, and Tim wasn’t going to force him to do it alone anymore. 

Tim had been scared to admit, but perhaps life without Bruce was possible. Clearly, for Dick and Damian, it was. Maybe it could be for Tim, too. Just one day at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> look. during the whole red robin thing when bruce was dead-not-dead for a while, dc never fucking let tim grieve the way dick and damian and alfred did. Homeboy must’ve been 5 seconds away from a breakdown the whole entire fucking time which-- honestly, same.


End file.
